


A Brief Respite

by Avourellion



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Aftermath of battle, Alexendrian Express, Chapter rewrite, Chris blames himself, Gunshot Wounds, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wounds, alternate perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avourellion/pseuds/Avourellion
Summary: On the train back to Alexandria, Scholar Christopher Wolfe tries to push the chaos of Oxford out of his mind, but he's haunted by the memory of his students who died on the mission. He turns to his lover, Captain Nicole Santi, to talk, before things take a turn for the worse.
Relationships: Christopher Wolfe/Niccolo Santi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RosalindInPants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalindInPants/gifts).



> This fic takes place during Chapter 11 of Ink and Bone, as the group is on the train back to Alexandria after escaping Oxford.
> 
> For Rosalind. I'll be eternally grateful for your and Mazeem's timeline.

He stank of blood and dirt and death. They all did.

The station had been cleared for them, and he was glad for it on two counts - the precious original books they were carrying would be safe, and no one would see the Library’s servants so weak and battered.

“Why is no one here?” Khalila asked.

Christopher turned his head to look at her, but didn’t stop walking.

“Isn’t this one of the busiest stations in England?”

“It is,” he replied. It was almost eerie how her question echoed his thoughts. They’ve been spending too much time around me, he thought. “But they’ve been asked to keep it clear.”

“For us,” Nic clarified. “In case word’s travelled. We’re still carrying valuable books with us.”

Christopher nodded. As weak as they were, and some of them quite injured, they would have been an easy target for Burners and book smugglers, even with Santi and the High Garda escort.

The postulants had moved into a half-circle shape around him and Nic. Chris wondered if they knew they were doing it, setting a defensive position. How they scanned the station and how tense they were wasn’t lost on him either. They probably didn’t realize what they were doing, he decided. Oxford and the Welsh camp had chafed at them all, leaving raw nerves exposed.

Next to him, Khalila kicked a shard of glass that had been left on the floor. It skidded across the tiles, and several people jumped at the sound. Seif murmured an apology.

Nic put a hand on her shoulder. “No harm done. We’re all on edge.”

Behind them, Hault and Brightwell were whispering to each other. The girl was still wearing the restraints, but once they’d left the Welsh camp he’d half removed them, looping both twists of Obscurist-locked wire around one wrist.

At last they emerged from the wide tunnel into the station proper. An entire unit of London Garda, twenty strong, was waiting for them. Chris would have preferred the Library’s own High Garda, but he was glad to have a unit accompanying them nevertheless. One stepped forward and saluted Christopher and Santi. A lieutenant, by the badges on his uniform.

“Scholar Wolfe. Captain Santi. Up there and to the right. Your train’s waiting, sir.”

Chris responded with a curt nod, and Nic, High Garda through and through, returned the lieutenant’s salute, and led the group past them.

The Alexandrian Express was only four cars long, a tiny thing compared to the massive engines that usually ran through the station. It was sleek and small, but still managed to look intimidating, like a lightning-fast predator. The engine itself was hissing slightly, but no steam billowed from it. The silver metal gleamed, and the long golden streaks down the sides had a faint shimmer to them.

He stopped before the door of the second car and waited for them to gather around him.

“The sensors will read your bracelets. I’ll enter the code that will allow you aboard. There is a lounge, dining car, and bedroom carriages. Your names are on the doors. Each compartment has its own shower, toilet, and bed.”

“Dinner?” Dario asked. It was an effort not to roll his eyes. Trust Santiago to always be thinking of food.

“Served in two hours,” he said. “Our journey will carry us overnight. We’ll arrive in Alexandria by noon tomorrow.”

Thomas Schreiber looked shocked. “We will move at four hundred eighty kilometers per hour.”

Wolfe nodded, impressed by the speed with which Thomas had completed the calculations. “You’ll hardly notice, unless you look out the windows. If you do, I advise you to look on the horizon to avoid dizziness.” He placed his right hand - the hand he wore his Library bracelet on - against a shallow, round indentation on the side of the train. A door slid open with a faint hiss on seams that had been invisible before. “As you enter, pause until you hear the chime. If you do not hear a chime, hold still.”

“Or what happens?”

Christopher fixed Jess with a piercing look, but the boy didn’t shrink away, like he had his first few weeks at the library. He couldn't resist the spark of pride he felt for the boy, still determined and brave after everything he'd seen and been through.

“It’s the Archivist Magister’s personal conveyance; given that, I assure you, you don’t want to know.”

At those words, the postulants all shifted as one, no one willing to go first. At last Jess stepped up, gently pushing Morgan aside. He paused in the doorway, and a deceptively pleasant chime sounded from a hidden speaker.

Morgan followed, sticking close to Brightwell, almost as though she was scared of being left behind. Glain shoved her way past Khalila and Dario in her usual brusque manner. Dario bowed to Khalila and gestured to the door with an overly dramatic flourish.

“After you, desert flower,” he said, flashing her a grin. The expression didn’t make it to his haunted eyes. Khalila nodded wordlessly and tugged the stained of her hijab tighter before entering too. She looked ready to collapse with exhaustion as she stepped aboard, and Dario hovered by her side, as though he had come to the same conclusion and wanted to be there to catch her if needed.

Finally it was just Christopher and Nic standing by the train in the station. It was silence was eerie - Chris had been through here countless times before, and it had always been filled with people. The still, empty station seemed unnatural, almost ominus, to him. But perhaps what had happened hours ago - was it really only hours? - in Oxford had rattled him more than he’d thought.

Nic was studying him. At last he just reached out and pulled Chris close to him. That was what Chris loved about him. No _what’s wrong_ , no _are you okay?_

He would just offer what comfort he could.

Finally Chris had to pull away. “We should go.”

Niccolo nodded wordlessly, and followed him on to the train. The postulants had already all vanished into their rooms, and the hallways and lounge were deserted. Their names were inscribed on polished wooden plaques on the doors.

Everything on the train was so clean. Christopher had managed to get himself cleaned up a bit before they arrived in London, but he still felt out of place there. His clothes were streaked with mud, and the straps on his pack had rubbed the wound on his shoulder raw. It had opened again, and blood was beginning to soak into his jacket.

Nic held the door to his room open, a silent invitation to come on. Chris gave a slight shake of his head. He longed for his company, but knew he needed time alone even more.

The room was small, yes, but it lacked nothing for it. The bed was large and covered with soft sheets and heavy blankets, with fresh clothes already laid out on it. A polished wood desk was mounted to the wall so it didn’t move around, and a small side door led to the tiled bathroom with gilt faucets.

Chris stripped off his clothes and stumbled into the shower. It was painfully hot at first, stinging in all his scrapes and wounds. Only the bullet wound in his shoulder wasn’t screaming in agony. In fact, it was oddly numb. That probably wasn’t a good sign, but he didn’t worry about it now.

The water that swirled down the drain was grey and brown, mixed with the rust of old blood and the bright crimson of it fresh, as several of his barely-healed over wounds reopened. Christopher closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the tiled wall of the shower. Even though the water hurt, it was a good pain, and he welcomed it. He was no stranger to pain, after all, and it helped ground him and washed away the memories of Oxford, if only temporarily.

The sky outside had turned to twilight by the time he emerged from the bathroom. The clothes on the bed were slightly too large, but he would rather them be too loose than too tight. Before trying to put any of them on, he took a small tube of gel from his pack. When it touched the air, it immediately began to dry, and he worked quickly to smear it over each of his cuts. In less than a minute, it had completely cured, gluing onto his skin and sealing the gashes shut. It would dissolve in a few days, giving scabs time to fully form.

The trousers Chris managed just fine, but his shoulder finally decided to shriek in protest when he raised his arms to pull the shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor. The air was cool, but he could deal with goosebumps if it meant not ripping open the half-scabbed wound. The Garda gel he had smeared over it wasn't meant to be put through so much stress as he rotated his arm in his socket. It was still throbbing, but he’d dealt with worse.

Outside, the world flashed by in a blur of black and brown and grey. On the horizon, he could just see the sun beginning to sink behind the hills occupying the corner of the window. It was a dizzying sensation to watch everything move past so quickly. He snorted as he remembered what he had told the postulants. _Look on the horizon to avoid dizziness. Try taking your own advice._

When Christopher had first climbed aboard the Alexandrian Express, he had wanted nothing more than to take a shower and then sleep until they arrived in Egypt. Now, even as he lay in bed, he couldn’t seem to be able to fall asleep, though he was exhausted. Finally, defeated, he threw the covers off, yanked on his old boots, and stormed into the hallway, slipping into Santi’s room before he could change his mind.

Nic stood by the window. He was also dressed in the fresh clothes laid out for him, and he had folded his High Garda uniform and placed it on the desk, torn and filthy though it was. He had clearly just gotten out of the shower as well, and his dark hair stuck up in wet spikes.

He glanced toward the doorway, not looking surprised to see him in the slightest.

“You missed dinner.”

Chris shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”

Niccolo studied him. “You tore your shoulder.” He walked up and stopped right before Chris. His fingers were cool and gentle as he touched the wound.  
Christopher flinched away from the touch, slight as it was. “It’s nothing.”

“Idiot. It clearly hurts you. I’ll go get bandages to re-wrap it.”

“It’s nothing!” Christopher insisted. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Nic said nothing. He dropped his hand and moved around him, going out into the hallway and leaving Chris alone.

The Scholar threw up his hands in defeat, even though Nic wasn’t there to see it, and dropped down in the chair by the table to wait. It was only a few moments later that Nic returned with a gauze strip and a roll of stretchy fabric bandage wraps.

Chris submitted silently to his lover’s doctoring, only letting out a hiss of pain as Nic dabbed a thick cream over the wound. “To keep infection out,” Nic said. His hands were deft and sure as he secured the wrap and tucked the last fold under to keep it tight.

“You’ve done this before,” Chris noted.

Nic shrugged. “I’m not Medica, but we don’t always have one in the field. I’ve had to do it to my soldiers before.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. How could it have been your fault?”

“No, not that…” Christopher searched for the right words. They usually came easily to him, but not now. “For Oxford. Everything else.” He stood, moving his arm in circles, testing his mobility with the tight bandage.

“The only reason they sent me was because they wanted me dead.”

Nic gave an odd half-smile. “They’ve wanted you dead for years and you’re still here.”

He did have a point there, Chris thought. “The only reason they sent you was because of me. I could have gotten you killed too.”

“But you didn’t, love. We’re still both here. Broken bones heal twice as strong, no? They can’t hurt you.”

“But they can!” Christopher shouted, his pent-up anger exploding out of him. “They can do whatever they damned well want! Do you think they need an excuse to kill me? To get me out of the way? They don’t. I’m living on borrowed time, and we both know it. Oxford wasn’t the first time they tried to dispose of me, and it won’t be the last.”

“Chris-” Nic began, reaching for him.

“No!” Chris slammed a fist on the desk, sending shocks of pain through his arm from his injured shoulder. “Two of my students are dead because of me. _Dead_. The Artefix and the Archivist tried to kill me, and my students got in the way. They died so that I can be here, Nic. Their blood is on my hands.”  
All the anger seemed to evaporate from him all of a sudden, and he leaned into Nic. The other man wrapped his arms around him, holding him and comforting him.

“I know, _amore mio_. I know. People have died for you. People will die for you. You think I don’t know? I’m a soldier, I’ve seen my friends die. And I’ve had to replace them. Please, Chris, don’t blame yourself.”

Chris buried his face in Nic’s shoulder. “They were children, Nic. Danton and Portreto were _children_.”

“They were sixteen,” Nic responded, “Hardly children. They were the same age we were when we joined the Library. Remember that first class, Chris? You were reading a book the entire time. You held it under the desk. I had to explain the whole lecture to you that night.”

Christopher snorted. “Our training was considerably easier.”

“Easier?”

“Then what I put ours through.”

“You’re a good teacher. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Chris shrugged, turned, and sank down onto Nic’s bed. In the silence that followed, he could hear something…

“Can you hear that?” he asked. “It sounds like someone’s slamming doors in the corridor.”

Nic frowned and opened the door, poking his head out. A moment later, he relaxed and leaned against the doorframe.

“Looking for something?” he called. Jess Brightwell appeared in the hallway across from Nic, and Chris realized Santi had positioned himself so he could see the corridor from the bed.

“I’m looking for Scholar Wolfe, sir,” Brightwell said.

Chris got up and crossed the room to stand behind Nic, putting a hand on Nic’s shoulder. Jess’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes flicked between the two of them. There was something terribly amusing as Brightwell put it all together. If Chris was being honest, he was surprised Jess hadn't figured out about his and Niccolo's true relationship already. He was a remarkably observant boy, most of the time.

Chris watched Nic’s expression in the polished mirror-like panels across the corridor. He just looked amused at Brightwell.

“Well? You’ve found me. Speak.”

Jess sucked in a deep breath. “I- I can’t find Morgan.”

“You couldn’t find me, and I was one door down. What business is it of yours where she is? She can’t leave the train.”

Jess looked torn between speaking and leaving. At last he blurted, “She’s not going to just let you hand her over the Obscurists. She told me that.”

Christopher didn’t miss Jess’s meaning. He turned and grabbed his Codex from the desk and flipped through the pages. “Her tracker is still active. Still on the train.”

“Then where is she?” Brightwell demanded.

“In the back. Come on.”

Nic had grabbed a shirt and tossed it at Chris. He pulled it on over his bandaged shoulder, wiping all trace of the wince from his face.

“She can’t get out,” Santi said, but it was clear he didn’t believe it. “It’s suicide.”

“She’s an Obscurist; she can get out.” He leveled a serious look at Nic. “And I hope it’s not.”

The two of them took off down the hallway, headed for the back. Jess made a move to follow them.  
As they stopped to open the door into the next section, Nic turned on Jess. “No. Go back. We’ll find her.”

“I want to-”

“Jess.” Nic took the boy’s shoulders. “Just go back. All right? I promise to tell you.”

Brightwell looked like he wanted to tell Nic to go to hell and that he was coming anyway, but Chris yanked him through the door onto the back of the train and slammed it.

A red aura pulsed around it a moment later. Chris knew that, on the other side, Jess was trying to batter his way though, but he had sealed it as soon as it closed.

Outside the train, the wind whipped by at such speeds it threatened to pull him off the back. Nic knelt down to retrieve something. A moment later he held out two loops of gold wire, both split.

“She left it there on purpose. She wanted us to see it.”

Nic was shouting, and the wind still whipped most of his words away.

Christopher stared out at the tracks, as though he could see Morgan’s broken body lying on them, but even if she was, they’d be far past the spot by now.

Chris shook his head, taking the bracelet from Nic with one hand and holding his shoulder-length hair out of his face with the other.

“Jess-” he began, but he couldn’t finish.

Nic put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell him.”

Chris nodded and touched his gold Library bracelet to the small pad beside the door. There was a click as it unlocked, and the red light stopped. Nic and Chris stepped back though into the warm, oddly silent hallway. The rest of the postulants had gathered after Brightwell's shouting.

Nic took the restraints back and held them up for them all to see.

“She managed to open one of the doors,” Chris said quietly. “She jumped.”

“She jumped?” Khalila gasped. But how could she survive at this speed? We’re going so…” her voice broke as the realization hit her. “So fast.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris said, but he knew that the words meant nothing to them.

“You’re sorry.” Glain’s voice was filled with icy contempt. “Again.”

There was no more speaking. They all went back into their own cabins, alone with their grief and anger, Jess last of all.

“Make sure he’s all right. He’ll take it better from you,” Chris said to Nic.

Santi reached out to open Jess’s room, but the door was already locked, and he shrugged hopelessly at Chris.

“He’s locked it,” he said, even though they both already knew that.

“I’ll send a message ahead. To my mother,” Chris responded. Keria was the second most powerful person in the Library, and an Obscurist like Morgan. Chris hated to have to go to his mother for help - they talked once or twice a year, only when there was no other choice - but if anyone could help now, it was her. 

“Nic. What should I do?” he asked.

Nic took Christopher in his arms. “I don’t know. But you can explain it to them. They trust you and respect you, even if they don’t seem like it right now.

A sudden tremor ran through the train. Chris raised his head from Nic’s shoulder. “What was that?”

Nic had tensed. “I’m not sure, but it can’t be good.”

The train lurched again, and everything began to slide. They were thrown against the side of the train, and the lights turned to flashing red. The brakes screamed - they weren’t meant to stop the train when it was going this fast.

“What in Heron’s name-” Chris began as soon as he was able to get words out. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Your shoulder?”

“Fine. That was… we stopped.”

“The Express never stops.”

“It did. This is the Artifex. I’ll bet anything on it.”

He rose to his feet again, looking out the window.

Nic rose behind him, just in collapse again as an explosion shook the train.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know I'm tweaking the details of what happened when the train stopped a bit... but really, I can't resist making things more dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm not allowed to re-gift a work after I've posted it... oops. So I'll say it here. This chapter is dedicated to Mazeem!
> 
> I'm so sorry for the short chapter! This fic was intended to only be two with a much longer second chapter, but how it ended I figured would better serve as a lead-in to a third chapter. Also with a third, I'm allowed to go *fuuuck imma just post this before I overthink and over-edit and never get it done*

Christopher crashed to the floor as the train gave one more - and hopefully final - lurch.

The smell of burning rubber and the metallic stench of scorched metal filled the room. A door or window must’ve broken open for it to get in. Christopher coughed and spat on the floor, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

He pushed himself to his knees. “Are you hurt, Nic?”

There was a groan next to him. “I hit my head. Hurts like hell but I’ll be fine.” Nic reached out and grabbed his arm. “What in burning hell happening?”

“Two options, neither good.” Nic wiped a hand over his face.

“Burners,” he said, making the word sound like a curse. “Or the Library, trying to kill us. Again.”

“Both? For all we know, the Archivist is going to try to pin your death on the Burners.”

“It’s a good plan. If I wanted to kill someone and make it look like an accident…” He trailed off. “That’s how I’d do it.”

Nic turned away and swore. “We need to get off the train.” He stood and offered Chris his hand. When they had both gotten up, Nic grabbed his belt from the dresser and pulled one of the guns out of its holster and offered it to Chris.

Christopher took it with a curt nod and tucked it into his robe. “You go see if you can find out why we’ve stopped, and find your soldiers. I’ll take care of the postulants. Meet me back in the lounge. It’s the most secure place.”

Nic raised his eyebrows. “Giving orders, Chris? I thought I outranked you when we’re in a situation like this.” The words were serious but his tone was light and joking, though the humor felt rather forced.

“I’ll take your orders later, love,” Chris said, smirking. This time Nic laughed.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He was halfway out the door before he stopped and turned around.

“Chris?” he said, reaching out and touching his lover’s shoulder. Christopher covered Nic’s hand with his own before putting his other arm around him. They were nearly the same height - Nic was only an inch taller - and he didn’t have to lean up to kiss him.

It was a long moment before they drew apart again.

“Be careful, love,” Chris whispered against Nic’s lips.

Niccolo smiled. “Always.” Then he pulled away and was gone down the corridor.

Chris thumbed the safety off on his gun, holding it concealed in a fold of his robe. He was confident in his ability to bring it up and fire quickly enough should the need arise - and he had a bad feeling that it would.

There was a crash and angry muttering from one of the rooms down the hallway.

Chris froze, waited for the voices to stop, then moved silently over to the door. He pressed his back against the wall by the opening, took a deep breath, then swung into the doorway, gun pointed at whoever was within. “Guns down and hands where I can see them,” he ordered the two people on the floor.

The lights had all gone out in the room, even the sickly green emergency glows. Two pistols slid into the circle of light on the ground that spilled in from the hallway.

Then Khalila Seif, of all people, stepped out of the shadows.

Christopher lowered his gun. “Are you hurt?” he asked briskly.

She shook her head. “No, but Glain struck her forehead. I’m not sure how much blood she’s lost, but she doesn’t look good.”

Now that his eyes were more adjusted to the darkness, he could see Wathen curled up on her side, pushed into a corner. Her already dark hair was black with blood, dried and fresh, and matted to the side of her face.

Chris cursed and dropped to his knees beside her. He smoothed her hair off her face and placed a hand on her neck, checking her pulse. It was slow and slightly erratic, but it was still strong. He felt an odd instinct in him, seeing her hurt this way. Protective, yes, and almost fatherly.

Shaking himself, Christopher hooked an arm around her. She groaned, eyes flicking open, and grabbed a fistful of his shirt to help pull herself upright.

Wathen spat out a mouthful of blood and muttered something in Welsh, too quick for him to catch. “Scholar. Was beginning to think… you weren’t coming.” She groaned again, holding her arms out for balance. “What’s going on?”

“The train stopped,” Christopher said curtly. “I’ll explain later. Can you walk?”

She took an experimental step and stumbled. “How much blood did I lose?” she muttered. “Everything’s spinning.”

“We’re headed back to the lounge. Seif, find the others, tell them to meet us there. If you see Captain Santi, tell him to send a message ahead to the Medica.”

He hated to send Seif off on her own, but physically, there was no way she’d be able to support Glain all the way back. Wathen herself had nearly eight inches of height over Khalila, and it wouldn’t have worked for either of them.

"Yes, sir,” she said. Stooping to retrieve her gun, she vanished around the corner.

Glain and Christopher were partway down the hall to the lounge when a gunshot went off in the car behind them, the same car Khalila had gone into. Chris send up a quick prayer to his gods and urged Wathen along faster.

He slammed the bracelet on his wrist into the scanner by the door and it slid open to admit them.

Glain was doing better now that she was on her feet, and managed to stumble across the room on her own. Nic had already gotten there, and was helping tend to the wounds of his soldiers.

They were all his own High Garda who had been waiting on the train for them. There were only eight of them, nine if he counted Nic, but every person they could get was a valuable asset.

 _Or more victims to add to the Archivist’s pile of corpses,_ he thought darkly.

One of the soldiers - a broad-shouldered Japanese woman with the dagger-and-blood-drop badge of a field-trained Medica assigned to a Garda unit - looped an arm around Glain’s shoulders and led her over to a bench to treat her head.

Nic grabbed Chris’s shoulder - his uninjured one - and pulled him to the opposite room so they could speak without being overheard. “The track ahead is gone. The train isn’t going anywhere.”

Chris let out a hissing breath.

“Behind us?”

“I’m guessing the second main lurch was the Burners taking it out.”

“Dammit. We’re sure it’s Burners?”

Nic shrugged. “No, but they’re the most likely. I’ve sent word out to Commander Faliq. He’s stationed in Toulouse, not too far from here. I trust him.”

Christopher knew Faliq well enough. The man was at least twenty years older than him, and he was one of the most experienced commanders either of them knew. He was also known for being on none too good terms with the Archivist. Chris suspected the only reason Faliq still had his position was because of the outrage, from both the public and the Garda, that would be sure to come were he removed. “How far out is he?”

“An hour, maybe more. He’s bringing fifty men.”

“Overkill. Still, they won’t hurt.”

Nic paced over to the window and drew back the curtain an inch. “There’s another exit. Through the baggage room, there’s a door they use for taking luggage on and off of the train. We might be able to get out that way."

“Any idea what’s waiting for us?”

“None.” Nic pulled out his Codex, flipping through the pages. “Still no word from Faliq, damnit.” He turned back to his soldiers. “We’re moving into the baggage room.”

Glain struggled to her feet, hugging a pistol against her chest. “We’re not going anywhere without the others.”

Chris nodded. “Yes, _you_ are. That’s an order, Wathen. Move.”

He made to touch his gold band to the lock and open the door when Nic grabbed his arm to stop him. “What are you doing?”

“I said you’re moving into the other room. I’m going to find the students.” “Like hell you are, Ch- Scholar. We have no clue what’s out there, and I won’t allow you to be killed on my watch.”

“It’s not like you’d allow me to be killed off of it, either,” Chris retorted, pulling his arm out of Nic’s grasp and unlocking the door. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, though, he let out a sigh of relief. Jess, Dario, and Khalila were all at the far end and hurrying down. Thomas lagged several steps behind, half-carrying the attendant. Her name was Gretel, a faint voice in his head reminded him.

He mentally pulled on his mask, slipping out of his role as Christopher, worried guardian, and into that of Scholar Wolfe, the harsh, uncaring teacher. “Inside,” he snapped. “Move.”

The second they were all in, he locked the door behind them. Wolfe kept his palm pressed against the unusually warm metal, straining his ears to hear anything beyond, from voices to the crackle of flames. “Keep going,” he said, only half paying attention. “Get to the baggage room at the rear. Thomas, find yourself a weapon when you arrive. The rest of you, extra points for participation.”

“Is there an exit?” Jess asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Wolfe didn’t blame the boy for being afraid. “Yes,” he said, not turning from the door. He waved them toward the baggage room door with his free hand. Glain, Nic, and the soldiers had already all filed through. “But whether or not we can use it will depend on the situation. Go, I said!”

He heard Nic talking to the others from the opposite room. Giving up on trying to learn what was happening beyond, he joined them.

“-not far from Cahors. When I sent the message, they said it wouldn’t be long.”

“Too long,” Wolfe said. “We’re sealed into this compartment, but we’re still vulnerable. They could set off Greek fire beneath this car, and we’ll roast. We stand a better chance outside.”

Nic nodded. “We’ve enough small and heavy arms to go around. Best to do it now before the search gets this far. My troops go first and secure the ground; the rest of you follow. Maps show we have about a hundred-meter run to the forest for cover.”

Glain leaned forward. With her cuts sealed shut and her head bandaged, she seemed in far better shape than she’d been when Wolfe had found her. “It works better with a distraction.”

“We have alchemical smoke,” Nic said, “but we’ll have to make it count. Since you brought it up, that will be your job, Wathen. Glass tube on your right, on the wall. On my signal, jump out, break the tube in half, and drop it. Don’t breathe it in. Can you do that? I’ll be covering you.”

“Yes, sir, Captain.”

There was the sudden, muffled sound of an explosion, and the train car rocked slightly. The attendant Gretel checked her Codex.

“The engine is burning, and the Archivist’s lounge. Greek fire, I think. It’s spreading to the dining car.”

“We need to go,” Wolfe snapped, putting a hand on Khalila’s shoulder. The gesture was entirely unconscious, the result of his protective feelings toward all of the students. As a group, they moved for the door.

All except Brightwell. The boy bolted off in the opposite direction, back into the darkened lounge.

“Postulant!” Wolfe barked. “Where are you going?”

Jess ignored him and grabbed for the handle. He hissed with pain and yanked his hand back. Judging by the bubbling of the coolant in the tube around the door, the metal was burning hot.

Wolfe grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the door before the boy could hurt himself again, pushing him against the much cooler wall. The oily, acrid smell of Greek fire was beginning to leak into the room.

“Brightwell. _Jess_. What are you doing?” He resisted the urge to tell Jess he was being an idiot. If he was acting this way, he must have a reason.

“I left her!” Jess gasped, his eyes wide. “She’s still out there, waiting for a chance to run. I have to get her out!”

 _Morgan._ Wolfe mentally cursed all the gods he could think of for the girl’s stubbornness and her ruse. He was going to kill her later. He’d thought she was dead, another student’s death on his hands, and here she was again?

He cursed out loud, tightening his grip on Brightwell’s shirt. “Are you telling me Morgan is alive? She didn’t jump?”

“I didn’t know, sir, please- I have to get her. Open the door!”

Wolfe didn’t hesitate. “Nic, go! Get them out!”

He touched his wrist to the door’s seal, earning him a painful scorch on the back of his hand from the burning metal. “Stay behind me,” he ordered. “And don’t breathe in the smoke.” He locked the door again behind them. Sealing them out, yes, but sealing the others in so that they’d be safe. _Or at least as safe as they can get,_ he thought ruefully.

As they neared the next compartment door, he could hear the hissing of gas and cracking flames. “The fire’s spreading,” Chris warned. “Our attackers might have already withdrawn. When I open this, the smoke will spread. Hold your breath as long as you can.”

He threw a fold of his robe over his shoulder, covering his nose and mouth. Behind him, Brightwell pulled his shirt over his face as well. He opened the door with his band, and thick, greenish smoke flooded into the corridor. Chris couldn’t see the flames themselves, but he could see the green glow they cast on the walls and furniture.

Chris felt his way along the wall, struggling to keep his eyes open. Inadvertent tears washed down his face as his body tried to wash the acidic smoke out of his eyes. Jess grabbed his shoulder and pointed at one of the doors. He slammed the indicated one open and Brightwell stumbled inside.

The boy instantly broke into a coughing fit as another wave of smoke washed over him. “Morgan?” he shouted. “Morgan!” Chris gave him a none-too-gentle shove farther into the room. Brightwell took the hint and began searching the room for Hault.

Christopher himself felt along the wall for the masks. He finally found them behind a glass safety panel. He slammed the heel of his hand into the glass, shattering it, and snatched up the mask inside. Only one. Damn. He followed the sound of Jess’s coughing and grabbed the back of the boy’s head and pressed the mask over his face. Chris put a hand on Brightwell’s back and felt his breathing even out. _Good. At least the boy will make it out._

“Go!” he shouted in Brightwell’s ear. The sound of the fire and the creaking metal and whatever other noises a burning train made were deafening. “Go!” He struggled after the boy, but it was getting harder and harder to breathe. His head was pounding and spinning, as though the world was moving around him. Chris hadn’t realized it was possible to feel so dizzy. He felt sick, too, his stomach churning and ready to hurl itself everywhere. His eyes were nearly sealed shut with the smoke. He’s been exposed to the smoke from Greek fire before, of course, but never so much of it for so long, and never mixed with the chemicals and fuel from the train itself.

He took one more step before stumbling and collapsing, his strength completely gone. He slid down the wall to the floor.

_Forgive me, dear Nic. I had to get the children out._

The darkness was all around him; more than just the smoke pressing in. He finally let it sweep him away.

_I’m so sorry, my love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commander Emery Faliq is an OC of mine I've written into a couple (as-of-yet unposted) fics. He's Arabic, like Khalila, but was raised in Europe. Honestly he's not really even a major character in ANY of my fics but still, for some reason I've put a lot of thought into him. He was one of the Garda who came to fetch Christopher from the Iron Tower after he was tested and released. He also fufilled a role similar to Santi's during Chris and Nic's training. I'm not too sure on if he'd work with the timeline and with canon, but still... just for y'all wondering about him.
> 
> Hopefully I'll be able to write him into the third (and most likely final) chapter of this.


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